Get Me the Hell Outta Here
by SubwayWolf
Summary: Curly hates the reformatory center - there's mean wardens, crappy food, and no windows. But to the rescue comes Tim and Dallas. Can the older Greasers break Curly out of that place?
1. Chapter 1

**A\N: This first chapter is in Curly's point of view. The next will be in Tim's and it will alternate for however long I want it to. **

* * *

"SHEPARD!"

I frown at the shout of my name. My stomach falls. From an addictive habit, I nearly said "What the fuck do you want," but caught myself. Instead of that comment, I said nothing. Just stood there, looking deaf and dumb in the eyes of the other kids who were forced in the reformatory as well as me.

"Are you DEAF?" Screamed the drill sergeant, warden, guard, devil, whatever the hell he was. Truth was, I didn't care. He could be the president of the United States, and I wouldn't care. I just wanted to punch him. "Get the hell over here, you hearing-impaired little fuck!"

That frown\scowl still plastered onto my face, I stumble over to my cot and stand next to the guy yelling my name. He's big, bigger than me. Bigger than Tim. I don't make eye contact with him, because if I do, it's only going to make me want to punch him more. He's wearing a blue, ostentatious outfit like all the other people wear in here. He has no hair. Muscles bulge from underneath his one-size-too-small shirt.

I still don't say anything. I don't _dare_ say anything. Because if I say something, it will be wrong, just like always. That's how it's been here, that's how it's been in school, that's how it's been back home with Tim. Everything I say, it's wrong.

The man yells, "Hey, smart guy, _look_ at me!"

I look at him. He has black eyes.

He shoves a hand-sized cardboard box in my face. It's blue and says "Kool" on the front. I look away from it, biting my tongue a little. Great hiding place, Curly. Under your pillow.

"Dumbass" isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.

"What is this?" The guy's voice is surprisingly calm, so I look up at him. His eyes are still angry. I don't answer. "WHAT IS IT?" The veins on his neck pop out and I can smell the cabbage on his breath. That's what we eat in the reformatory school. Cabbage and salt pork with big chunks of fat in it. And water. Sometimes coffee.

I shrug. "I don't know." I'm looking down at the floor again. The cold, stone floor. There are a few tiny brown balls on the ground. I stare at them. Rat shit, is what it is.

"You don't know, huh?" Cabbage. "Well how did they get here, Shepard?"

I pout. "My name isn't Shepard," I say under my breath. The guy looks down at me. I hate being looked down on. My fists clench.

He hits me across the face, hard. It makes a huge slapping noise that echoes through the concrete room. It stings immediately, and I hear the other kids gasp. I clench my teeth and shut my eyes tight, preventing myself from making any kind of noise to show the other kids I'm weak.

"_If you ever show your Achilles' heel in front of people, they will target you immediately. Keep quiet if you're hurt. Don't respond if someone insults you. And don't hesitate. Never, ever hesitate if someone hits you. Hit them back immediately."_

"_Sure, Tim. Uh…what's an Achilles' heel?" _

"_Just go to bed, Curly."_

I keep my fists clenched in my pockets. I want to hit him back. I want to hit him back so bad, I can't stand it. I'm so angry, my hands are trembling. The spot where he hits me goes from stinging to burning in an instant. I look up at him with flaming eyes.

"Fuck you, your name isn't Shepard. I don't care. Where the hell did you get these?" He gives me time to answer, and then the veins on his neck swell again and his Adam's apple sticks out like an elbow and he shouts, "ANSWER ME!"

I say the first thing that comes to mind. "Somebody must have put them there. I don't even smoke." I lie through clenched teeth. My hands are still trembling, and I can nearly feel the spot where he hit me turning red. My breathing becomes deep. I breathe through my nose.

"Anger management issues" isn't the right term, but it's the first term that comes to mind.

"_You have to quit acting on impulse. It gets not only you, but the whole gang in trouble. And you don't want that to happen, do you? Take deep breaths. Count backwards from ten. Do whatever it takes. Just don't dump your drink on the store clerk just because he gave you the wrong amount of change."_

"_With that quarter, I could have bought a pack of gum or something."_

"_You never chew gum, Curly."_

"_I know, but you get what I mean, right?"_

The bald man's eyes become less angry. At seeing this, my fists loosen. Just a little. "Well who sleeps in the bunk below you?" He asks, looking suspiciously at the patient boys lined up in a row behind us.

I shrug, then think about it. I remember the blonde-headed kid that called Tim a good-for-nothing hood. Called Angela a drunk whore. Called me a follower and tagalong. My fists clench again, just thinking about _him_. Probably a Soc. I smirk, because the man won't see me do it. "I don't know his name, but he has yellow hair and buck teeth."

The big man screams, "MCDANIELS!" and walks away from me. I don't even turn back. I'm still smirking.

"Genius" isn't the right word, but it surely is the first that comes to mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**A\N: Sorry if this is hastily written. I was on a time crunch. Tim's POV. **

* * *

"So, uh…," Dallas is laying on my couch, his feet buried into the brown cushions so I can't see them. "Did ya get any letters or phone calls from your brother yet?"

I'm laying on my back on the floor. I'm folding my empty cigarette carton into a triangle, but it turns out big and bulky and by the time I can't fold it anymore, it looks like a deformed square. I toss it at the wall, not giving a damn where it lands. "No. I don't even think he knows how to spell his own name, let alone write a sentence."

Dallas paws at his blue eyes out of tiredness. "Come on, Tim, don't be an ass like that. You miss him, and you know it." He pauses as he takes a drag out of a cigarette that I didn't notice he had. "And I know it, Tim, so don't go along and deny it."

Dal is very much correct, but I'll shoot myself before I admit it. I glower at him and scowl, "Don't smoke on the couch."

Slowly, Dallas flashes me the "are you kidding me?" look, but I maintain my cold stare. In less than two seconds, he pulls his feet out of the dirty couch, throws them up on the top of it, and hangs upside down with his head on the floor. "Is that better?"

I sit up after realizing that my shoe is untied, again. "If you choke, I ain't giving you no Heimlich."

"You mean you wouldn't take a golden opportunity like that to touch my beautiful body?" He smiles. "I'm disappointed in you, Timothy."

My shoe is tied, so I stand up. "I think I would happily pass. And don't call me that." I throw a pillow at him. He catches it and smiles back at me, amused, his white-blonde hair lying flat on my floor. I don't respond with a smile. I keep a straight face and walk into the kitchen.

I hear a thud noise, and suspect Dallas had flipped over and gotten up to follow me. When I reach the kitchen, which smells like rotten eggs, I take a curt look over my shoulder to find that I'm right.

"You know what, Timmy?" He asks while he sits on top of my kitchen table.

I grab him by his shirt and pull him off of the table, which I know could break any second. "What?" I pause shortly. "And don't call me _that_, either."

He straightens the wrinkly bunch I made around the collar of his white t-shirt. "I think you've changed since your brother left for that reformatory school."

I glance at him, keeping my eyes as cold as possible. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Dallas explains as he hops onto the table, again. "That you worry too much now. Usually you don't give a damn. Now you care about everything." He catches himself before I can talk. "I mean, not like you're all lovey-dovey or anything. It just seems that you actually are giving a damn about things instead of just pretending to all the time. You dig?"

I don't respond. Instead, I think.

Dallas is right. After Curly was hauled off to that hellhole, I've been more worried about him than anything in the world. I can't get him off my mind. I worry that he's getting hurt or he's not getting fed or that he misses me. And it bothers me a lot that I actually care about any of this, because I usually don't. Curly doesn't mean anything to me at home. Or does he?

I think about that time I went to the reformatory. They didn't let me smoke. They fed us shitty food. There were no windows in the whole damn place. How that makes you a better person, I don't know. All I knew was that I needed to get him out of there. And as soon as I possibly could.

"What?" Dallas asks. I look at him, and he's studying my face pretty hard. "What are you thinking about? You have a 'thinking' face on." Before I can answer, he adds, "I'm surprised you actually have a brain up there, you know?"

I don't respond to the sharp comment. I just tell Dallas what's in my mind.

"I need you to help me."

"With what?"

"We're gonna break Curly out of the reformatory."


	3. Chapter 3

"Phone call for Mr. Shepard."

I'm trying to swallow down some thick salt pork when I hear my name. I look around to see if anyone is around, but there is nobody. The bland chunk of fat rolls off my tongue and falls onto my steel plate. I just sit there, beginning to think that it's just in my head. Was I going crazy? It's about time.

"Mr. Shepard?"

I stand up, looking around frantically. Nobody behind my back. Nobody up in the ceiling. Nobody under the table. This was solitary confinement, right? So who the hell was talking?

I come to the first conclusion I can reach. "God? Is that… _you_?"

There's laughing, and I look around more. "Come on, kid. Is there something wrong with your head or are you trying to be a god damn class clown? Just open the slot, I don't want to keep this guy waiting. He's in a bad mood, I don't want to tick him off any."

I stare at the door blindly for a few seconds, and then walk over to it. I pry my fingers through the cold slate of metal and slide it open. Suddenly, a white telephone is shoved in my face. I have to jerk back to dodge it. I tug on some of the spiral cord so I have more space to walk around.

I pull the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Hey, kid."

My eyes widen. My heart flutters softly against my ribcage. "Tim! Hey! Wha-…why are you calling?"

He chuckles, softly, and I'm puzzled how a simple question like that could get a laugh, such a reaction like that, out of my brother. "What, I can't call and check up on my kid brother? Fine then, I'll just hang up if you don't wanna-"

"No!" I shout, and then realize how pathetic that sounded. "I mean, tell me why the hell you're bothering me?" Of course, he isn't bothering me. For the past god-knows-how-long, I've been attempting to swallow this cheap pork belly, taking disgusted stabs with my fork at the broiled cabbage, and sipping with revulsion at the half-spoiled milk out of the warm, metal glass. Tim definitely was NOT bothering me.

I hear my brother exhale. "Listen, Curly," he says, sounding a bit tentative.

"I'm listenin'," I reply, though I know that my response isn't needed. And that my brother was probably annoyed by it. I couldn't nearly hear him rolling his eyes.

"Hurry it up in there!" Shouts the man from the other side of the big, metal door. "You only get to talk for a minute, kid! Then it comes outta your meals."

I can't help it but to snarl back at him out of impulse. "The meals are shit anyway, pal!"

I put the phone back to my ear to hear Tim laughing. I smile, knowing that I did well. "So what do you want? Tell me already."

My brother took a breath. "Dallas Winston and I, we're gonna bust you outta there."

I choked on my tongue. "You're gonna WHAT? Are you kidding me? They got dogs all over the front, and a huge fence, too. The ain't messin' around here, Tim. You won't be able to pull it off…"

"You think I give a shit?" He snarls at me, and I picture him foaming at the mouth like some sort of rabid dog. "I've been there, Curly. It ain't no walk in the fucking park. I'm going to get you outta there, easy." I don't say anything in response to this. I'm irate. "Curly, have they hit you yet?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me, Curly."

I gulp, the taste of the pork belly still lingering in my mouth. "Yes."

"I'll see you Wednesday."

Dial tone.


End file.
